


Trek to the Future

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: Spock is bereft after leaving the Discovery. He decides to return to Vulcan to meditate and cleanse himself of emotion when his shuttlecraft encounters a temporal anomaly that transports him back to London, Earth- 2017 where his 6th great grandfather is in the cusp of a choice that could unmake Spock forever... how is the half-Vulcan trained to reject emotion, meant to convince the most logic-oriented human in history to fall in love?***WARNING // SPOILERS// for Star Trek Discovery season 2***
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back? Back again? Katie's back. Tell a friend!
> 
> Haha but real talk my life has been bonkers in fucking Yonkers these past 4 years (whose hasn't?) But seriously... I went from a housewife of 6 years with a job in the service industry to separated and working an unpaid apprenticeship in my dream career, now I'm on the cusp of my career for real and back with my husband who just tested positive for Covid. So... swings and roundabouts. 
> 
> The aforementioned covid has given me time to think and I'd rather think about Star Trek and Sherlolly than the sense of impending doom so weeeeeee!!! Here we go.
> 
> Also I have no answer for why I only seem interested in crossovers. Unbeta'd because I'm impatient and lazy.

Prior to the Academy, Spock's experiences being on Earth were limited to diplomatic trips, or brief awkward visits with his human extended family. It was his father's wont that he not spend too much time amidst Earth's natives out of concern he would acquire even more human foibles than those to which he was already predisposed. As a result, every visit to Earth gave him the distinct impression of an uncomfortable visit with an estranged relation.

Starfleet did little to assuage the sensation during his debriefing. Each aspect of the events leading to the Discovery's time jump- from Michael's birth, to the last words they each spoke to one another as a family- were dissected and examined by a panel of admirals made up of some of the very same brass that condemned Michael to prison only a few years prior.

Irony was not a sensory experience, but were he given to human expressions Spock would have noted this one bitterly.

Admiral Marcus crossed the room to his mother with a look of put-upon sympathy and condescended to place a consoling hand on her stooped shoulder as she wept for his sister.

Worst was his father's faltering voice as he spoke of her heroic sacrifice. A Vulcan who embodied stoicism and logic, now stood before a panel of humans on the brink of tears, haunted by loss. It was not only the loss of his daughter he'd all but wept for. He'd lost her before in so many ways, great and small, since she'd come under his care; His little Earth child had always found her way back home to him.

Sarek was haunted not by mere grief, what he'd truly lost now (and indeed, what they'd all lost) was hope. The chances of her ever returning were so remote as to be effectively impossible. They now, irrevocably, live in a universe that no longer contains Michael Burnham. Unless and until her final beacon is found, they won't even know with certainty that she crossed safely.

Spock relaxed against his seat with a sigh running a palm across his brow as his shuttle broke Earth's atmosphere. Settling the vessel into a low orbit as he punched in his flight plan. He caught his own reflection in the shine of the console and nearly did not recognize himself.

Shifting in the uniform that he no longer felt fit quite as well as it had before, he watched as distant points of light grew larger in the viewscreen.

When he first donned the uniform and swore to give his life in pursuit of the progress of all space-faring species, he had only measured the cost of his own life. He had not weighed the toll that living in the aftermath of someone else's sacrifice would take on him, or his family.

His elder sister, Michael Burnham, was the embodiment of Starfleet. Every inch of her built and nurtured on the principles of birth parents who gave their lives in service, refined in the fires of Vulcan education into the ideal candidate for command.

And him, ever the starry eyed baby brother, rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy to chase his hero into the great unknown. If anything could bring them back together, if anything could make them finally understand each other, it would be serving together in Starfleet. He'd allowed himself to hope it could be so.

He was disappointed in himself for such a human indulgence, angry for the disappointment, frustrated over the anger and helpless that these reactions seemed to spiral and feed into one another- roiling and casting about behind his ribs and heating his blood.

That circumstances could take them both so far away from their logical paths, unmoored him. What role did logic serve when a simple act of self defense triggers a series of catastrophes, each greater than the last?

He smoothed a hand over the front of his uniform, tugging the tails and straightened his back. Yes, he was alone, and in full acknowledgment that he was struggling with trauma, but that did not stand to reason that he should comport himself thusly. For that is all any of this truly was. A pathology. Measurable, classifiable, treatable trauma brought on by extraordinary circumstances. It would only be a matter of time before it was behind him like every other break, sprain and scar that came before.

For the mean time, there was only one panacea for an existential crises that Spock knew. He would return to complete Kolinahr and train his mind to reject all emotion. It had become clear that his putting it off was an unacceptable lapse, and the time had now come to follow through as any true Vulcan would.

Upon being granted a leave of absence from his duties, Spock rejected the offer of return passage to Vulcan via diplomatic vessel. He had no need for the amenities of a finer ship, nor interruptions of his solitude from the rank and file. Instead, he took Captain Pike up on a previous offer to borrow a Shuttlecraft. The Sagan had been left behind, prepped for his silent journey home in the landing bay as requested.

Cruising steadily through the upper atmosphere at low impulse awaiting Starfleet's approval of his flight plan before going to warp, Spock navigated the Sagan passed the Luna colony, then a double check to navigational settings before turning to the replicator to request a cup of Tarkalian tea when the computer interrupted him with a warbling beep.

_Warning, anomalous chroniton radiation detected ahead. Full come about advised._

Although his outward expression had only an arch of one full brow to show for this news, it may as well have been a gasp for the Vulcan. This close to Earth, this soon after the ordeal of a debriefing with their parents- if Michael could choose a perfect moment to send her seventh sign, to give their mother and father one last shimmer of comfort knowing their only daughter was safe- this would be it.

There it was again, he reprimanded himself for indulging in vain hope once more. Odds were that this was just another radiation cloud like countless others he'd surveyed in his years as a Starfleet science officer. Still, he had a duty to document the anomaly for his logs.

"Computer, on screen" he ordered, the computer beeped in affirmation, filling the viewer with the requested readings.

There it was again, that dreadful hope that this could be the seventh beacon; The final proof that she'd made it safely to the other side. Spock pushed down the unhelpful emotion, but reminded himself that it was illogical to discount any temporal anomalies, especially one timed so... conveniently.

"Computer, set course toward the anomaly, half thrusters." 

The computer gave yet another klaxon.

_Warning- ferrying model shuttlecraft are not constructed to withstand chroniton radiation- structural and temporal integrity is not guaranteed. Authorization code required to override navigational programming._

Spock sighed, "Fine. Authorization code: Spock- gamma eighty blue."

His code was accepted with a trill of beeps,the thrusters deployed as the Sagan crept toward the cloud, helmed carefully by the science officer- searching the starfield and nebulous borders of the particle cloud for the telltale red beacon. Thrusters disengaged, the Sagan was allowed to drift a scant several hundred meters from the anomaly.

Another klaxon sounded and the computer spoke.

_Warning: Electrons in the particle field displaying irregular temporal movement and may breach the hull. Full come about is advised._

"Yes I heard the first time." Spock spoke through grit teeth, punching in the order for yet another full spectrum sensor sweep of the particle field. He kept approximately 800 meters of distance between his craft and the cloud, close enough to observe the anomaly through the view screen, just short of making contact. 

At least that was the conceit of the plan, until the cloud began to... _move_ toward him. There was no other explanation, the field had been stationary before, and now it was reaching toward him... He hadn't had a chance to order the Sagan to full stop before the cloud passed over it, and by extension, him.

Particles visibly drifted through the hull, fluttering like raining ash sparking and sputtering. Spock consciously maintained scientific detachment, despite the stirring inside him as he witnessed the phenomenon up close and in real time.

Lights flared and swirled within the particle cloud that filtered in through the hull as easily as raktajino through a paper filter. Colors burst within the growing particle field obscuring Spock's vision to such a degree that he could not see his own hands on the conn. He shouted over the blaring alarm for the computer to reverse course, warp two.

The sound of the nacelles engaging preceded the familiar lurch of jumping into warp speed. The ship was moving, for all the good it did, yet Spock remained blinded by the particle cloud that seemed little affected by the sudden increase in velocity. It occurred to him that his only option might be to come to a full stop and vent the radiation through the airlock very, very carefully so as not to join the radiation in the vacuum of space. He would not wish to perform such a risky maneuver, even with full visibility, let alone now when he could hardly see a centimeter from his face.

Going by feel alone, Spock initiated the flight chair's safety harness and not a moment too soon as he felt the nacelles disengage and the Sagan spun out. Without navigation or functioning engines this close to earth, he ran the risk of being drawn by the planet's gravitational pull at the incorrect attitude. Failing to break the surface tension of the upper atmosphere would have the Sagan crashing against it like the universe's worst belly flop.

Spock clamped his eyes shut and braced for impact…

But, to his continuing surprise, the force acting on the Sagan gentled before dissipating entirely. Now that he found he could, Spock cast a careful gaze across the flight deck- all systems, save for engines, online and functioning at 100%.

"Computer-" he called in plaintive exasperation, answered again with an impatient tone from the ship's computer "damage report".

_All systems online and functioning at optimal capacity._

The computer confirmed the readings on the viewer. But if these readings were to be believed- not only was there hardly a nick to the Sagan's hull, it had landed safely back on Earth… while the navigational systems and engines were offline.

"How… _Where_ am I?" He probed, grasping for any explanation of what had just occurred.

"London, United Kingdom" the computerized voice replied.

It was not the San Francisco headquarters from where he'd first taken off, but it was a relief to know he'd landed very near a Starfleet hub and not on Antarctica or at the bottom of the Marianas trench or some other equally inconvenient location. This whole ordeal was going to be humiliating enough to explain without having to call for a rescue.

"Computer, open a channel with Starfleet command."

_Unable to comply. Reading no communications array in this sector._

"Computer, you said this was London?"

_Affirmative_.

"That can't be right. There is a Starfleet archive in the center of the city. Computer, widen scan radius."

_The nearest vessel that can be reached via subspace is a Bolian freighter approximately twelve light-years from Earth._

"How is that possible?" Spock asked, frustration mounting, he looked over the flight logs to confirm the data once again. To his dismay, the readings remained the same. Somehow he found himself in a London cut off entirely from the federation.

He sifted through the data again and again, searching for anything that could provide an answer, a blip in the radar or background radiation before realization sunk like a stone within him. He had all the answers, he wasn't asking the right question.

"Computer, *when* are we? What year?" His breath quickened, dreading the only answer logic had left for him.

_09:15 Tuesday, Earth date: May 9th, two thousand seventeen._

He exhaled slowly, of course- chroniton radiation. The temporal anomaly had sent him back in time to pre-warp Earth in the throes of late stage capitalism. Formative decades for humanity, but there was a reason the phrase 'May you live to see interesting times' Was considered a curse. Earth was the quintessential example.

He had to get out of here.

Newton's third law of thermodynamics states every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore it stood to reason the temporal anomaly that brought him here had a tangential anomaly on this side of the timeline. Put simply- if a chroniton radiation cloud could bring him into this world, it could certainly take him out.

There were protocols for officers cut off from Starfleet, as ever he had a duty to uphold the prime directive. He would need to take great pains to insure the timeline is not corrupted by his influence.

Starting with hiding the shuttlecraft, disguising his alien origins and crafting an alias until he could get his bearings enough to find a way back to his own time. A tall order, all of it.

However the entire situation was complicated even further by a sudden sound- a knock. Not the sort of knock that could be attributed cooling metal or malfunctioning tech. A steady, even, *polite* knock thumping against the hull of the shuttle.

A sweep of fingers across a keypad and the shuttle hatch hissed open revealing a tall silhouette back-lit with sepia colored light, a smell of damp stone swept in.

"Mr. Spock, I presume." The voice of a genteel British man broke the silence.

Spock scrambled to unlatch the safety harness at his chest, rising to match his visitor's height and stepping closer to more clearly observe his face.

He appeared to be a man in later mid life with a high hairline and imperious features, carrying a long umbrella like a cain. The man wore a suit of such quality that, for this time period, could only mean bespoke. He carried a demeanor that betrayed him as a man of status.

He appeared unfazed at the sight of the literal alien and space craft in front of him. For all that showed on his face, it might as well have been another Tuesday. It occurred to Spock that this man could easily pass as Vulcan.

"You are Lieutenant Commander Spock, authorization code: Gamma Eighty Blue. I am here to act as your temporal liason on behalf of our mutual friends in Section 31." He held out his hand for Spock to shake.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." The man added as they shared a customary handshake. "I've never meant this before but… I am delighted to make your acquaintance."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV and his origins in Section 31.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring Beta reading from the incomparable MizJoely. Thanks Cap! Naturally I own any mulligans, boners, whoopsies or cock ups.

London, UK, 4/10/1995

Mycroft had been only five years into his career at MI-5 when Uncle Rudy called him into his office, locked the door and disabled CCTV within 500 meters of the building. There, cloaked in total secrecy, he shared the most significant of all his responsibilities.

With the press of a button beneath the desk's surface, the floor beneath them slid out to reveal a small set of steps leading downward into a hidden room, twice the size of the office itself. Inside were stark white walls covered in locked boxes and a table in the center. 

"This" the patrician elder pronounced "is my legacy and yours." Rudy raised his hand, displaying the somewhat ostentatious watch he bore on his right wrist. His other hand reached for the face of the watch, twisting it in a pattern similar to a combination lock. Once the correct combination was entered, a key slid from a previously unnoticed slot beneath the watch face.

Box 1701/12B was what he sought, curiously labeled as none of the neighboring boxes seemed to bear any continuity in the numbering. In fact, none of them seemed to be labeled in any sort of pattern Mycroft could contrive. The same row also contained 1764, 74656, NX-74205, 75567, 0514 and on in that fashion. Others seemed to simply have the name of an individual with a date beside it. Multiple boxes, for example, had the name James T. Kirk with various dates past and future… much too far apart for them all to be the same James T. Kirk.

"Ours are the hands that bend the long arc of history toward justice. This is our highest calling and heaviest burden, my boy. If you do your part, there will always be one of ours shaping the future." He spoke as he used the key in the lock of box 1701/12B. From its depths he revealed a large unopened envelope.

The packet was obviously quite old, wear showing in the corners and along the edges and the cover bore Mycroft's name in uneven typeface, clearly from a very old model typewriter. The ink showed little sign of fading, likely due to being kept in a cool, dark, metal box for decades upon its typing.

Inside was a small rectangular device comprised entirely of a screen approximately 15 centimeters long and a separate rectangular device that seemed to fold onto itself. He looked to his uncle, almost as if to ask permission to touch the items but his uncle was too lost in fascination with the contents to notice. 

Tentatively he reached to brush his fingers across the larger object's screen, gasping as it lit up with his touch.

"Classified… thumbprint scan required…" a circle made of swirling dashes appeared beside the text, the same approximate size as the pad of a thumb. 

Mycroft complied, pressing his right thumb inside the circle. The swirling white dashes connected into a solid green circle and the device gave two bright beeps.

The previous text disappeared and new text appeared "Welcome, Mycroft Holmes…" beneath his name was a table of contents for terabytes of data, each marked by a separate date in the future. 

"What is this?" Mycroft wondered aloud as he opened and quickly read through one file after the other. Each contained detailed data- local traffic, weather, wildlife migratory patterns etc… and very detailed instructions for Mycroft. Some tasks were simple enough that they could be accomplished by a trip to Sainsbury's, others would require feats as great as hacking into NORAD.

"What is this?!" He repeated, aghast.

Uncle Rudy simply smiled an imperious smile and answered, "This, my dear boy, is Section 31."

…

London, UK, 17/5/2017

"Are you certain this is the place?" Andrea asked after a quick glance around the empty warehouse the driver had brought them to before re-affixing her gaze back to her mobile screen.

"Quite", was Mycroft's terse reply.

"There's nothing here. Just four walls and some lights," she added.

"For now", the tall man agreed rather ominously. He checked the pocket watch he kept in his waistcoat and swallowed against the thick lump of anticipation in his throat. At any moment his visitor would arrive./p>

The folding device he'd been given upon his initiation gave an alert from inside his pocket. His PADD (the flat screen that bore superficial similarities with the contemporary tablet that was given to him in his initiation packet) had instructed him in the use of the second device- the tricorder. It chirped as he unfolded it, eyeing the readout right as it spiked. A sensation, like a strong whirlwind, threatened to knock them both off their respective feet.

A cloud of deep purples and blues formed in front of them. Flashes struck like lightening among the smokey tendrils swirling in mid-air. The whirlwind that enveloped them gained strength, tightening into an ever narrowing point ahead. A large object emerged from within, slowly, as if it were being pushed through a rubber wall.

The object was a boxy vehicle of some kind, although it had no wheels. As the swirling cloud began to dissipate, the craft descended to the concrete floor gently, or as gently as an isolated tornado of unpredictable temporal radiation could set down an object the size of a small lorry. It landed with only a slightly undignified 'thud'.

Andrea gaped, good. It was time she began to take the temporal liason responsibilities more seriously. Someday they would be hers. Only those with the highest levels of security clearance were even allowed to utter those two words together without being taken in for 'enhanced' questioning. Still the younger woman seemed to hold onto her skepticism as if it were a talisman that could ward off the madness the truth threatened.

They, and they alone, protected Earth's timeline from invaders and helped lost souls find their way back without corrupting the trajectory of human development. It was their prime directive. But it was a grave duty. 

Mycroft had personally seen to the destruction of tech that could end starvation, disease and war- but could also instigate famine, plague and genocide if placed in the wrong hands. Humanity simply was not ready yet.  
He would never admit it, but it broke him each time to watch the marvels of humanity's future progress smolder into ash before his eyes.

Hospitality missions like this, however, were another thing entirely. Though he was almost always meeting someone hundreds of years his junior, the moments he was obliged to play host to the temporal tempest-tossed were rare moments in which he felt as though he was speaking to a true peer.

He steeled himself as he awaited the vessel's occupant to venture out, but the person remained stubbornly inside. Politeness dictated Mycroft give them a few more minutes to get their bearings. It was a funny thing, even though they were almost always investigating temporal anomalies, the people who found their way to his time always seem confused as to how they arrived there. He supposed it was something that would taken even a man such as himself some time to come to grips with.

Another five or so minutes passed. Mycroft looked at his watch, then looked to Andrea who had somewhat composed herself, and clucked his tongue in slight dismay. This was not an ideal response time. If he hadn't been prepared for this shuttle's arrival, it could have been compromised in the time the pilot took to exit.

Mycroft decided to rip the bandage off, so to speak, approaching the ship with sure steps. He'd seen similar models before- although he was under strict orders never to enter them. He knew the rear hatch was the point of egress and approached it to tap his brolly against the hull in a clear, resounding pattern.

Another moment later the hatch began to ascend open and a lean bearded figure cut a silhouette into the light emanating from inside. Dark hair trimmed into a severe fringe across thick brows that framed sunken eyes. Not the shock or panic Mycroft was used to seeing from his visitors.

"You are Lieutenant Commander Spock, authorization code: Gamma Eighty Blue. I am here to act as your temporal liason on behalf of our mutual friends at Section 31." Mycroft offered his had to the man in greeting.

The man, Spock's, eyes widened infinitesimally- yet betrayed nothing. He turned his head, quirking a heavy brow at Mycroft's gesture of goodwill.

Mycroft felt his breath catch. Something had certainly seemed different about this man, and now Mycroft could see why in the point of his guest's ears. He had known encountering non-human races was a possibility, it simply had not yet occurred. 

Reluctantly Spock took Mycroft's hand in greeting.

"I've never meant this before but… I am delighted to make your acquaintance."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns he will be getting a new housemate... how do you think he takes it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun writing this and I'm truly grateful for your kudos and comments! Thank you so much for reading. Again, all praises to MizJoely for bringing the beta skills because ya know ya girl don't know how to comma.
> 
> As usual, I own all whoopsie-doopsies, ouchies, and yikers.

London, UK, 17/5/2017

Sherlock had dragged himself limply to his flat at a time that was either dusk or nearly daybreak. It was, frankly, difficult to tell with his eyes drooping as they were. Barely taking the time to remove his shoes and jacket, he dove face-first into the most restful sleep he'd had in months. And it had been hard won- 6 weeks subsisting on coffee, crisps and micro naps as he chased a notorious mafia assassin through London.

It had been quite a little jaunt. A good stretch for his legs, and an even better distraction from the conversation he hadn't yet had with Molly Hooper regarding the Sherrinford situation. That was his only criteria for new cases now; not whether the case itself was particularly interesting, but whether it required a sufficient amount of brain work to keep him busy.

His little game of cat and mouse with the mob hit man had been just the balm for the twin maladies of anxiety and generalized insomnia.

When his face touched the pillow it was cool as a cloud. The mattress seemed to give under him, carrying him away into a dreamless void of deliciously recuperative rest. That was until he heard knocking.

No. Not knocking, hammering. He flew out of bed, ready to fight. What kind of maniac would wield a hammer at the absolutely ungodly hour of…  
He checked the watch he had not yet removed in his haste for departure to the land of nod… Quarter past noon?

Proper hammer hours after all, but he didn't stop that from letting him be sour. It was barely tea time, didn't they know decent people were still asleep at this hour? He wasn't one of them, but he felt he could stand on principle.

The rhythmic hammering was punctuated by the high hum of a drill, muddled conversation and the muffled warble of a radio. For godsake it was finally happening. A new tenant was moving into 221c.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson directed traffic of builders and movers in and out of the house, but took notice of him thumping down the stairs in his signature grouchy detective march.

"There you are! I was going to give it another quarter of an hour before I splashed you with water!" The kind older woman exclaimed.

"What, pray tell, is the meaning of all this?" Still managing to sound snobbish and bossy with an enormous cow lick and untucked shirt tails.

"It's a temporary arrangement Sherlock, for one of your brother's… oh what do they call them?… 'assets'. Oh don't give me that look, it's nothing dangerous, he assures me-"

Sherlock gave a haughty snort and rolled his eyes. "Oh, he assures you does he?"

Unmoved by his bratty behavior Mrs. Hudson merely fixed him with her patented 'I'll have none of this, young man' expression, "Yes. He's an astrophysicist from America here to chart… solar flares or something. I'm sure you'll barely notice him. Besides, you never know! This very house could be the site of a scientific breakthrough!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, incensed and sniffed. "A scientific breakthrough happens under this roof every day that I'm here!"

Mrs. Hudson gave a tight smile and simply, "Yes, of course dear. Silly me." She giggled uncomfortably until their standoff was interrupted by one of the builders tripping at the threshold, nearly sending the unmarked silver case he was carrying careening to the ground.

"Do be careful, these are delicate instruments." Mycroft admonished, appearing from seemingly nowhere. His settling hand on the man's shoulder saved him from spilling the contents of his arms across the lino. Of course, it was Mycroft's sudden appearance in the doorway that was most likely to blame for startling the man in the first place.

Clearly only satisfied when handing down judgment from on high, he turned his attention to his younger brother to regard him with a cool assessment. "Ah, Sherlock, how kind of you to join us. I do know how difficult it is for you to get out of bed before midday."

Sherlock was unfazed by the attempt to insult him. Really, digs at his alleged laziness were not even top tier insults from Mycroft. His older brother's heart just wasn't in it anymore.

"Mrs. Hudson is a senior citizen with an injured hip, not some innkeeper you can have running about to refresh linens and do turndown service." Sherlock said in an indignant snap; taking the absolutely laughable position that another tenant was simply too much for the woman who once had him hogtied and drove him through town in the boot of her car.

"Well!" Mrs. Hudson replied merrily, "I shall endeavor to remember you said that next time you beg me to go round to the shops for you!" She stepped toward the younger man, taking him by the hand and patting his shoulder lovingly. "But given how much Mycroft has offered to pay me to house his guest for only four months, I'm going to insist you take all your concerns to the front desk of the Savoy. I'm sure they'll be very sympathetic."

She punctuated her statement with a slight squeeze to his hand before getting back to her usual business of making sure everyone had tea, biscuits, and a general sense of well-being.

"I trust that will be the end of this discussion." Mycroft stated. "I will not have you disturbing him. His work is too important."

Again with this, Sherlock's nostrils flared and he was near shouting as he replied " _His_ work is important? HIS work is important?!"

Mycroft scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Do calm down. What he's working on is critical and will keep him very busy. You're unlikely to see him much at all. When you do, be decent, do NOT antagonize him and for godssake stay out of his workspace!"

"How convenient as _MY_ work is critical and keeps _ME_ very busy! He is unlikely to see _ME_ much at all. When he does, he'd better be decent, not antagonize me and stay the hell out of _MY_ workspace!" Then turned on his heels to clomp up the stairs in a strop and slammed the door of his flat loud enough to rattle the wall.

Once inside his flat Sherlock paced the floor. A thumping sound near the bins lead him to the kitchen window where he could watch the builders set up some form of makeshift observatory in the back garden complete with a large telescope and several telemetry devices.

"Unbelievable…" he said to himself as he watched the crew carefully assemble the instruments under Mycroft's careful scrutiny.

It was odd, Sherlock didn't recognize any of them as Mycroft's usual flunkies. This observation was supported by how near his brother stayed to the work crew, making certain every task was carried out to his exacting specifications. Were these his usual men, Mycroft would be more or less free to step away and handle other business. Andrea, his PA and future successor, must be taking care of things at the home office so Mycroft could attend to this personally.

Curious.

Not once did Mycroft even glance at his mobile, although Sherlock saw his hand flex anxiously at the rectangular crease in his pocket. Several times Sherlock saw his brother's hand reflexively reach to his left trouser pocket, remember himself, and stop.

He sorted it away as minutiae and continued watching his brother hover at the perimeter of the builder's workspace, clucking at them to put different things here and there. Repeating "Be careful with that!" in his arrogant posh tone that was only really good for making shopgirls cry and radicalizing the working class to revolution.

It looked like Mycroft was close to accomplishing the latter. One of the workers, fed up with some posh prick telling him how to do his job, was pacing and squeezing his hands into fists. It seemed he'd nearly gathered the courage to confront him.

A ringtone disrupted the mounting conflict however, Sherlock's gaze returned to Mycroft, the source of the sound. He recused himself to an unoccupied corner of the garden and the men outside returned to work. Pity, that could have been fun to watch.

Disappointed, Sherlock moved to turn away from the kitchen window, no longer interested in what has happening outside until he noticed something off.

Rather than his left trouser pocket, Mycroft retrieved his mobile from the right breast pocket of his jacket. He spoke tersely into it for a few seconds. Stranger still, he saw his brother go pale and swallow before ringing off, sliding his mobile back into his breast pocket and announcing "That's lunch" to the crew.

Sherlock was willing to write off the pocket discrepancy as him being too distracted by watching the builder working himself up to tell Mycroft to piss off. It was entirely possible that, in the diversion, he'd simply failed to notice his brother move the mobile to a separate pocket.

That theory did not, however, explain the rectangular crease that remained in Mycroft's left pocket that became more obvious in his stride.

Very, curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Mrs. Hudson is going to have to put one of them in the loo and let them sniff each other through the door!
> 
> Hope you're enjoying this so far! The pace will be picking up here soon I promise! I really do hope you all are being and staying well, in body mind and spirit. 
> 
> Remember to check in with yourself, ask "How am I feeling? Am I okay? Am I getting enough of what I need?" Really take inventory and reach out if you need help. If this shit has taught us anything it should be that we need each other and no one becomes a hero by not asking for help.
> 
> I love you. You are the universe experiencing itself, make it a good one. 
> 
> Be safe. Be well. Lol sorry for preaching! Have a great day! Xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Molly following the events of Sherrinford. And what mischief is Sherlock brewing in 221B?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per usual, ever so much gratitude to MizJoely for always being so generous with her beta skills! 
> 
> All inadvertent slips, trips and flips are mine as I am still a known and confessed comma abuser.

Molly took a sabbatical following the threat on her life, using the time to visit her mother and sister. During that visit she tried to explain what she'd been through, but they could not get past the madness of what occurred to be of much real emotional support.

Still, seeing them again after the ordeal had been affirming in a necessary way. Next, with John's permission, she took Rosie on a bit of a shopping spree and general day of spoiling. Even if she wouldn't remember it. Molly had been shaken by how close she'd come from disappearing from the girl's life altogether. Making special memories with her goddaughter, while she could, seemed more important than ever before.

"I hope you know you never need to ask" John told her." "By now, you've mothered her longer than…" He cleared his throat. "Well… I just want you to know I couldn't have gotten this far without you. Anything you want. Anything you think is good for her… just… just know I trust you. I'm just so grateful we still have you, Molly." He gave her a tight, lingering hug.

Awkward, but warm, she returned the embrace. Molly still didn't know exactly how to behave around John after he'd witnessed the absolute emotional gutting she'd received from the skillful manipulations of Sherlock's younger sister.

She had even less of an idea of how to behave around Sherlock himself. Her new strategy was not unlike her previous strategy, which was to bury all emotional context under heaps of work. This time she took it further and added an arm's length of distance between them at all times, literally and figuratively.

Days following her return from sabbatical Sherlock approached her in the canteen. He sat across from her as she picked at her risotto, and stated without preamble, "Molly, you should know my highest priority was keeping you alive. So if my…" he paused, seemingly at a loss for words. He shook his head and pressed on. "No apology could ever be enough, but for what it's worth I am tremendously sorry, for everything. I just want you to know-".

She cut him off. "That you couldn't have gotten this far without me?"

He sighed. "…Well yes, of course but…"

"Thought so. I've been getting that a lot lately." Molly sniffed and looked down at her hands. "You don't have to worry. We'll always have the work."

She was still looking at her hands but she could hear his slow exhale. "Good."

"Good…" she parroted back, watching herself twist a paper napkin in her hands. "So… I'll see you round the lab then? If you don't mind I was just…"

She put the napkin down and replaced it with her fork, gesturing toward her food, still refusing to look up at Sherlock. He hesitated before rising to his feet. "Of course I'll just… leave you to it."

She nodded and watched his shoes disappear as he walked away. That was their longest non work-related conversation since Sherrinford.

Molly was of two minds about it. On the one hand, the distance had given her much needed time to think. On the other, much of that thinking still revolved around Sherlock and that dreadful phone call.

She stopped at the street corner outside the staff entrance of Barts to slip her cardigan back on. While it had been a bit stuffy in the lab, outside, it was unseasonably cool for mid-May. The weather matched the pathologist's demeanor: outwardly sunny, but chilly in ambience.

She wrapped the fleece around her, slipping her mobile out of her pocket to check it before taking the cement steps down to the tube station where the signal would be patchy at best.

On her mobile were a number of work emails that could absolutely wait, and a text from John. She stepped to the side of the stairs to sit on a nearby concrete bench.

 _Will you be at Sherlock's drinks thing tonight?_  
JW

The question confused her, not only were the words 'Sherlock' and 'drinks' strung together in a way that implied willing socialization; but it also implied she was meant to RSVP to said event while never having been invited in the first place.

 _Sherlock hasn't invited me to his thing._  
Mx

She only noticed the unfortunate phrasing after the text was already sent. However she couldn't bring herself to groan too much over it. How could she? The man had already witnessed the single most humiliating experience of her life.

John paid it no mind in his replies.

 _When he invited me, he told me to ask if you were coming. I assumed that he'd already told you about it._   
JW

 _Sounds like Sherlock. Won't you need me to sit Rosie?_  
Mx

 _I'm bringing her since we're starting so late. She can sleep in the cot in my old room._  
JW

 _Late start? What time? Where? Who else will be there?_   
Mx

 _9pm. Baker Street. Just me Lestrade and a few of the NSY chaps._   
JW

Nine was a bit of a late start. Maybe not so late to Molly's way of thinking, but she frequently pulled the night shift and only had partial responsibility for a toddler's upbringing.

It would at least be nice to socialize together for once. Usually if she was seeing Sherlock it was because John had Rosie. If she saw John, Sherlock had her. She was never together with all her friends at once anymore. Additionally, the reported size of the group meant she would have enough people as a buffer to curtail any uncomfortable encounters with Sherlock.

That settled, she texted a quick RSVP to the affirmative, then stood to hurry down the steps to catch the tube.

***

The sun had only just begun to dip as Molly approached Baker Street, attired casually in skinny jeans and raglan top, her hair in two braids. She held a handle of vodka under one arm and a party sized bag of crisps under the other. Sherlock was a brilliant man, but he was also the sort to forget that a drinks do would require something in the way of drinks.

John must have been riding a similar wavelength as joined her on the kerb holding a carrier bag with a case of Guinness in one hand, a pizza aloft in the other, and a dozing Rosie strapped into the sling on his chest. From the front stoop, loud music could be heard filtering out onto the streets, and not the sort of music one usually hears blaring from 221B. This was not coming from a violin, and it certainly was not classical.

John and Molly exchanged bewildered looks as John reached for the knocker. "Is that… Rihanna?" He asked, giving it a few strong taps.

"Sia, actually. Common mistake", she answered somewhat breathlessly, still confused as to what the hell was actually going on inside.

A thunder of footsteps on the stairs preceded the heavy door swinging open. "You're late," he accused immediately.

"What do you mean? It's barely nine!" John replied.

"I said 8:56." He clarified before passing to regard Molly with a quick scan. "Hello Molly, glad you could make it."

John scoffed and muttered something that sounded like 'I'll show you 8:56.' His banter has really suffered from the fact that most of his conversations were with a nearly two year old.

"Yes well I almost didn't make it since I wasn't technically invited." Molly's voice was sweet but admonishing. "Or am I still not invited because you're not letting us in?"

Sherlock seemed to have lost himself for a moment staring off into the space between them. "Oh right. Sorry." He took a step back, pulling the door open wider with him. Molly gestured for John to enter first and Sherlock relieved him of the refreshments he carried.

They followed him up the stairs, Molly taking up the rear further into the interior of the building. Sherlock and John had already made it into the flat ahead of her when she tripped on a high step, dropping the bag of crisps that promptly fell the entire way down the stairs.

She looked up to the rafters and sighed, lamenting her luck to the empty air before trudging back down to retrieve the bag. Once she was all the way back down to the main landing she bent to pick it up. From where she knelt she could see down the steps to 221C where light was shining through the cracks of the door.

Abandoning the crisps, Molly rose to her feet and carefully stepped the rest of the way down to the basement floor to get a better look. She hadn't made it entirely down the last flight of steps before a deep voice startled her from behind.

"Can I help you?" It said in an American accent.

Molly froze for an instant before turning on her heels to face the source of the voice. A tall, bearded man with smooth, black hair that fell in shoulder length tendrils over his brow and ears stood in front of her. The hair framed his Romanesque features and the beard somehow made his angular face and high cheekbones more severe. His countenance was very serious but he had the appearance of a… well, hipster.

"Oh sorry! I dropped my crisps and noticed the light on in 221c. You shouldn't go in there, you know. The last time anyone went in there they found a murdered child's shoes." She laughed her awkward little laugh at her own macabre anecdote.

He said nothing, merely raised a single eyebrow and bent down to retrieve the crisps that she'd abandoned to investigate the light downstairs.

"Thanks!" She closed the distance between them to accept the returned snack food. "I'm Molly by the way."

"MOLLY!" she heard Sherlock bellow from above before the stranger could introduce himself. "DID YOU GET LOST?"

"OY KEEP YOUR TROUSERS ON!" She belted back, not realizing the inappropriate volume level for the man in front of her. He blinked in response to someone shouting directly into his face. "Oh-oh I'm so sorry… uhm… listen, I'd better…" she gestured up the stairs with both thumbs.

"I guess I'll see you later?"

He did not speak, only nodded with a placid expression as she waved him goodbye and parted ways at the steps.

Her question had been based on the reasonable assumption that this man was simply another guest of Sherlock's over for drinks like her. She'd never met him before, but Sherlock had never invited her to a party before.

To her knowledge, Sherlock had never willingly participated in anything called a party that didn't have the word 'search' in front of it or 'of one' after. Molly had long since accepted there were many things about Sherlock she would simply never know.

She mused to herself as she made her way up the stairs toward 221B, taking no notice of the bearded gentleman removing a key from his pocket and using it to unlock 221C.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Thanksgiving in the US and I hope you all have something to feel grateful for today. But if that warm, fuzzy attitude of gratitude isn't coming so easily for you this year, this is your permission not to force it. Things are hard enough as it is without beating yourself up over not being "good enough" at faking gratitude for this dog shit year. 
> 
> I am grateful for you readers, who are mostly just my real life friends. Even if we aren't social media official, if you're reading this you're still my friend. Look at you, my amazing friend! Honestly who gave you permission to be this flawless? How can I not have gratitude for you, gorgeous?
> 
> Anyway, I'll quit blowing smoke and say I hope you're having a great season. Until next time!
> 
> .


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock's attempts to settle in to 221C are thwarted at every turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, ma! New chapter! 
> 
> I'm still chugging along! I had this little system and plan going where I would do one chapter a week, all posted at the same time and blah blah blah. But that's before I had like 6 chapters of mostly exposition to write before I could truly get to the plot so here we are!
> 
> Beta'd by the radiant flower that is Mizjoely. Any and all ruh-roh raggies belong to me! You're welcome!
> 
> Enjoy!

Following his exit from the craft Spock took stock of his surroundings. The shuttle seemed to have merely appeared from thin air inside this warehouse. There was nothing, not even an impact point or thruster burns, to indicate a shuttle had even landed.

Mycroft passed a much more sophisticated model tricorder than Spock had yet to see over him. Meanwhile Mycroft's assistant, a stoic woman in heels, was busy establishing a perimeter around his craft with some sort of small hovering drones. She pressed a button on the remote she held and his shuttle disappeared.

The Vulcan gaped, pointing, "You- you have a-" he stammered.

"Cloaking device, yes. Not to worry, this is… ethically sourced… so to speak. But you needn't trouble yourself with the details on that. We are under orders to destroy it in 2064. Although that won't fall under my individual purview, obviously. Tea?"

Spock had immediate suspicions of anyone that purported to associate with Section 31, and for sound reasons. Mycroft, however, was the sort of fellow that could put Spock at ease immediately.

The man was what the humans liked to call 'no-nonsense'; A curious phrase with nuances that imply a deficit. Spock, however, always appreciated a human that understood brevity to be the soul of wit. Most humans had a tendency to carry on, restating the same things in varying forms of exaggerated emphasis.

Spock allowed himself to be led away from the open area of the concrete-floored warehouse into a separate office area that contained a small table set for tea. Clearly they were very well prepared for his arrival.

"Let's get the dull bit out of the way shall we? Sugar?" Mycroft sat across from him and set about pouring tea for them both.

He nodded mutely as Mycroft added one, then a second cube of sugar before Spock stalled him with a slightly raised hand.

"It is my obligation as your liason to remind you of your duties during your stay in the 21st century." He slid the tea across the table, allowing Spock to add his own milk. "You are not to participate in- or otherwise be party to, any currently ongoing scientific research, political movements, or global events; Unless it is determined your intervention is necessary for the timeline to proceed as normal."

Nodding as he raised the cup to his lips, Spock paused. "Who determines when it is necessary?"

Mycroft gave a tight, unsettling smile in response. "It won't be."

Accepting that answer as sufficient, Spock returned to his teacup, taking a slow, careful sip from the top. Rather than being served by a replicator at the optimal temperature for drinking immediately, this freshly brewed tea still had swirls of steam emanating from the surface.

The exquisite blend of artisanal tea, real sugar and milk had Spock closing his eyes and sighing slightly into his cup as the beverage warmed him. Small comforts loomed large in the wake of his most recent ordeal.

"I've sampled your Federation's replicated food." Mycroft said, as if to himself. "Remarkable! You say whatever meal your mind can imagine and it appears before you- perfectly balanced with every necessary nutrient and amino acid. But still…"

"It is not quite the same. It never is." Spock agreed, taking another sip, savoring it for longer.

"Which brings me to my next point of order. You are permitted to enjoy any consumable, and acquire any good or service that is currently legal. You must, however, remain discreet and use the alias we have provided you."

As if on cue, Mycroft's assistant entered rolling a large suitcase behind her and a manilla envelope under her other arm which she gave directly to him.

Inside the envelope were a variety of documents. A US passport, a California state driver's license and birth certificate. All of which supported the story that he was a thirty six year old astrophysicist from Palo Alto, California. A plastic bag filled with notes and a device that looked like a tiny PADD also fell out alongside the documents when he emptied the contents onto the table.

"We have set up long term housing and observational equipment for you. Our best estimates put your tangential event at around four months from now, give or take a few…" Mycroft's voice trailed vaguely toward the end.

"Days? Weeks?" Spock pressed.

Mycroft exchanged glances with his assistant from across the room before answering with a forced smile. "Four months is our most… optimistic estimate. However, we are certain it will occur sometime within the coming year…" clearly attempting something like sympathy in his tone.

Spock's hand shook slightly, jostling the contents of his teacup as he came to grips with the prospect of an entire year of deep cover. He set it down beside the sandwich tray.

"This…" Mycroft continued, reaching for the small PADD-like device and holding it up to demonstrate, "is a mobile telephone. The most common method of long range communication for this period." He pressed an icon in the center causing a number pad to appear.

"It functions by dialing the seven digit number of the individual you wish to call. Andrea and I are already saved in your list of contacts. If you should require anything- anything at all. Do not hesitate to contact either of us."

He set the mobile back down with the other contents of the envelope, looking directly into Spock's eyes, leveling with him. "Believe me, I understand what this must… feel like…" Mycroft sighed as if he was disgusted with himself for saying the words but continued, "Even if you would just like to… talk. We are always available."

Looking at this man, entrusted with the knowledge of the future while trapped in the past, Spock could not help but believe that he did, indeed, understand.

While Spock refreshed himself with the food and beverages provided, Andrea opened the suitcase she'd brought in along with the envelope. She set aside a set of clothes and pair of shoes from inside the suitcase. When he finished, he was left alone to change into the new clothes, placing his uniform in a plastic bag to be kept safe until he could depart from this time.

The suitcase also contained a dermal generator. Rather than use it to surgically alter his ears, he elected to use the keratin stimulator to lengthen his hair. Keeping his Vulcan ears would force him to maintain his distance from the humans. It was not advisable to become too comfortable.

***

The flat was about as spacious as his quarters on the Enterprise. It was a one room bed sit with access to a few meters of fenced in grass they were pleased to call a garden. Although the open floor plan and high ceilings made it feel larger than it was.

The aesthetic was minimalist and earthy, with wood accents and small houseplants. A surprising amount of natural light filled the room during daylight hours bathing the room in a pleasing yellow hue.

His landlady had a warm, motherly (albeit nosey) charm. The shop above him was a cafe that was more than happy to take care of any meals Mrs. Hudson hadn't already thrust upon him.

The building's location in the city meant the major sights were only a few stops away. He couldn't participate in history, but he could take it in like a tourist.

His accommodations gave him very little to complain about- with one big, curly haired exception.

Spock truly did not know what he did to draw the ire of his top floor neighbor. Mrs. Hudson had introduced them, he said his name and offered the man a handshake. He'd simply looked at Spock's open hand, eyes followed up his arm to his face, staring.

The man's gaze was like a transporter, taking a person apart one molecule at a time and reforming them in his mind. For a hot instant of near panic Spock felt too seen. He put his hand down.

"You said your name is _Spock_?" He asked, arms folded tightly behind his back, eyes still narrowed, scanning his stony Vulcan face for every micro expression. Spock gave him nothing, and merely nodded.

"Spock what?"

"Just Spock."

This answer clearly did not satisfy the man but any follow up questions seemed to be placated by Mrs. Hudson's not-so quiet whisper, "He's from California."

It was a dubious thing, but this detail seemed to fit into whatever equation the man was forming about him.

"And your name?" Spock asked because it was necessary for a formal introduction and because turnabout was fair play.

The man raised a thick brow but answered nonetheless, "Sherlock."

"Sherlock what?" Spock answered, matching him with a rise of his own brow.

Sherlock paused for a moment before answering, "Just Sherlock" smugly. He then turned his back to Spock without another word and forded his way back up the steps to his own flat.

Since then, Spock had been positively bedeviled by a veritable smorgasbord of upsetting sounds, and smells, emanating from his neighbor's flat at random hours.

The first night he chose to use the small observatory Mycroft had set up for him, the garden area was suddenly rigged with motion activated floodlights that were set off by the slightest motion, making use of the telescope functionally impossible.

It seemed like the man could always tell when Spock was settling in to read or meditate, because those were always the moments Sherlock would compose discordant symphonies with his windows wide open.

Therefore, Spock was not at all surprised to find a loud social gathering in full swing in 221B as soon as he'd arrived back from taking his most recent meditation efforts to Regent's park. He sighed, using his key to enter the house. Taking the steps to his flat he saw a strange woman attempting to peer through the crack in his door.

Spock approached her cautiously at first. He was, in fact, an alien-human hybrid from centuries in the future under deep cover. Strange humans poking about his space was the absolute last thing he needed.

"Can I help you?", he ventured, startling the woman slightly, who turned to face him.

"Oh sorry! I dropped my crisps and noticed the light on in 221C. You shouldn't go in there. The last time anyone went in there they found a murdered child's shoes." She giggled at this statement but Spock could not tell whether she meant it as a genuine attempt at humor, or to offset the macabre nature of her comment.

He felt it best not to inquire and instead bent down to retrieve the bag of crisps, most likely intended for the gathering upstairs.

"Thanks!", She accepted the bag and then added, "I'm Molly by the way."

"MOLLY!" Sherlock's voice thundered from above impatiently, "DID YOU GET LOST?"

"OY KEEP YOUR TROUSERS ON!", she shouted back, directly in his face, causing him to wince outwardly.

"Oh-oh I'm so sorry… uhm… listen, I'd better…" she gestured up the stairs with both thumbs.

"I guess I'll see you later?"

Spock nodded mutely and watched her climb the stairs to 221B.

He and Sherlock locked eyes as they both watched Molly ascend the steps. Holding his flat's door open with his arm that found its way to her lower back as she entered. Sherlock gave Spock a final calculated glare before shutting the door noisily behind him, and symbolically, on Spock.

Yes, he suspected he would be seeing _much_ more of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So based on my first author's note, and now being finished with this chapter you're thinking, "Wait, she said 6 chapters of exposition? But this is only chapter 5."
> 
> Surprise! One more!
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party rages and Sherlock's plans are coming together until a dramatic revelation brings it all down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest yet! I guess content note: there will be alcohol and mentions of recreational drug use. It's super mild so I don't imagine it warrants a ratings change but idk...
> 
> As usual, the polish was applied by the effervescent Mizjoely, but any streaks in the buff are all mine.

He watched from the window as John and Molly met at the door to 221. John had done his part, unwitting though it may have been, to get her here. Sherlock could not have asked for a more flawless execution for phase one of his plan.

Truthfully, he did not know how to reach out to Molly now that everything was out in the open. He'd tried the direct approach but she'd shot it down immediately. That reaction was fair, considering she had spent a great deal of their relationship being shot down by him.

Many times he'd thought about calling her on the nights he awoke from frightening dreams and just hearing her voice would have been a welcome comfort. Thinking about listening to the dial tone, hoping a terrible hope she would answer, was too intense so soon after Sherrinford. He preferred to text but texting was not the appropriate medium for what remained unsaid between them.

So yes, he'd employed some very mild dishonesty to get her here. Molly was no fool. Sherlock could be certain she was aware, but came anyway. Could it be an olive branch; A gesture of good will from the pathologist that perhaps she was amenable to building a bridge back together? He wanted to think so.

He met them at the steps, Sherlock taking John's grocery burdens in hand and leading them upstairs where Rosie made the smoothest transition from carrier to cot her godfather had ever witnessed. With that, he put another point up on the board for this evening.

He would spend the evening with the people he most appreciated, refilling drinks, telling jokes, and generally being the ridiculously charming person he could be when he put his mind to it. At some point there would be a stem in the conversations, when the music gets louder as guests splinter off into smaller groups, creating the optimal moment to catch Molly alone.

He would get her another drink, get her laughing. Of course she wouldn't be ready to leap into his arms immediately, not that he would mind if she did. The goal for tonight was simply to remind her why she kept him around for so long.

Leaving John behind with his daughter to put away their overnight things and set up the baby monitor, Sherlock tread lightly back down the steps to the common area of the flat. There he noticed the object of his intentions had not found her way inside yet. He picked his way through the small clumps of people in conversation to the landing outside his flat.

Peering down the stairs he rolled his eyes as he spotted Molly in conversation with the basement-dweller. Honestly, could she go even five minutes without trying to befriend every person, animal, plant and lichen in her vicinity?

Good, he'd caught her right as she was making her introduction. Best to nip this interaction in the bud before she spent half the night chatting with the troll; or did something even worse, like invite him to the party.

Sherlock was fairly confident that, were such an invitation to be extended, his neighbor would decline. He'd gone to certain lengths to give his new housemate an accurate picture of how welcome his presence was, or rather, wasn't in 221.

"MOLLY! DID YOU GET LOST?", he shouted down to her, unable to contain a slanted grin when she shouted back.

"OI KEEP YOUR TROUSERS ON!" she yelled, practically in the man's face before apologizing and parting awkwardly.

In the next few seconds, his hand was on the small of her back, guiding her through to 221B, staring daggers at the Yank before slamming the door. In that small second, Molly got slightly lost in a group of friends who'd taken a brief moment away from their intoxicants and conversations to greet her.

Among them was, of course, Sally Donovan. "You made it!", Donovan exclaimed, bringing Molly in for a hug, "And you've brought provisions!" They made their way to the kitchen where the table held a growing spread of the various foods brought by the guests.

"If anyone actually cares, I did order food." Sherlock said defensively, joining them, as Molly set her crisps between John's pizza and Lestrade's deli platter.

"You mean the tray of Samosas that were half gone by the time anyone got here?" Donovan asked, gesturing to the foil tray where, now, only two samosas and a pathetic smattering of crumbs remained.

"I admit I may have… underestimated my needs", he conceded.

The two women looked at each other briefly, as if sharing the same thought, then laughed in unison.

"Story of your life, eh Sherlock?" Donovan quipped through her persistant giggles.

"Ha. Ha." He deadpanned mirthfully. He was much better at distinguishing between genuine cruelty and a good-natured ribbing these days.

"Oh speaking of-", Molly said in segue, "Did you see the budget proposal for forensics?"

Sally nodded her head solemnly, "I don't reckon it will be approved, but it was a bold play. If this is where negotiations are starting, we're looking at a tense few weeks."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, sidling up beside Molly to join her where she leant back against the work top.

"Problem, Sherlock?" Molly inquired.

"Nothing it's just… can we try not to talk about work tonight?"

The women shared an identical open-mouthed gape at this request. Molly's hand shot up to press the back of her hand to his forehead gauging his temperature. "Mr. Married to his work doesn't want to talk about work?!"

"Ooh trouble in paradise!" Donovan teased turning to the cooler to retrieve three of the coldest lagers from the bottom to foist on each of her friends.

Rolling his eyes, he accepted the chilled bottle from the inspector. "First of all, what you were talking about was bureaucratic nonsense that doesn't have anything to do with your actual job descriptions. And anyway, I'm doing this new thing called work-life balance…"

"Never heard of her." The pathologist scoffed into her beer and Donovan joined in with a cackle of her own. Their laughter was briefly louder than the music, drawing the attention of another guest.

Anderson had arrived at almost the same time as Wiggins- who was taking his party DJ responsibilities far too seriously and had arrived early to set up an unnecessary amount of equipment for the task. The thin bearded man arrived bearing hummus with pita and a rather nice bottle of chablis, then quietly held up the wall nursing a glass and poking around the pinboard from Sherlock's last case. Hearing Donovan's laughter had drawn his longing gaze in the woman's direction.

"Uh oh. You have a sad-looking ex on your six." Molly warned her friend who sighed in response.

"Why did you invite him, Sherlock?" There was a slight whine to her voice as she tentatively glanced behind her. Anderson turned his head quickly back to the pin board as though he hadn't been making cow eyes at her since she got there.

"Honestly Sally, It's flattering you think I could throw a house party in Baker Street that Anderson wouldn't find out about."

"So you can lie about being dead for two years but you can't lie to Phillip about this party?"

"Yes. Besides he's sort of… you know…" Sherlock murmured something inaudible.

"What was that?" Molly pressed.

"He's…" Sherlock murmured inaudibly once more.

"Hes 'mime fresh'?!" Donovan asked, attempting her best approximation of what she thought Sherlock said.

"No! Friend! He's my friend, okay? Happy?"

"Ew no!" Donovan laughed. "I mean… yes. I am happy you finally realized you're literally nothing without us, I just don't know if I'll ever get used to hearing you admit it."

"Exactly when did I say I was 'literally nothing' without all of you?"

She leaned in closer to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder, "It's subtext." She winked then took another gulp of her beer before walking away muttering something about going to 'circulate'.

Silence stretched between them as they watched Donovan join Lestrade and Dimmock in separate conversation. A semi-private moment with Molly, his entire goal for this evening, was upon him. He couldn't squander it on a lull.

He took a breath to speak, something neutral and topical… what was the last topic of popular interest he could remember? She spared him the deliberation by speaking first.

"So… a party?" Her question was punctuated by a pointed sip of lager.

He looked down at her through his lashes and smiled smugly, "So… skinny jeans?"

She blushed. Oh splendid! He could still get her to do that.

"We're each trying new things", he added before self-conscious Molly could take over and stammer all over the lino, "And I think it's working. For both of us."

For the last bit, he leaned in a little closer than was strictly polite for just friends, letting his voice drop low. This close, he could hear her breath halt. The kitchen was well lit, so the dilation in her eyes was all for him. She bit the corner of her lip to subdue her grin at the compliment and Sherlock decided this evening deserved another point for that alone.

"To trying!", Molly proposed, propping the neck of her bottle toward Sherlock in toast.

"Too bloody right!" he agreed, clinking the neck of his own against hers and downing what remained in his bottle in a single long gulp.

They chatted amiably about Rosie. She was a safe, personal, non-work topic and her frequent developmental milestones always provided new talking points. It also served as a subliminal reminder of how much they shared. In much the same way they always had the work, they always have their goddaughter, exponentially more so.

He didn't want to press the physical intimacy too much this early in the night. At some point, under the guise of reaching for something on the work top, he'd slid his arm behind her, propped up on his flattened palm. From the outside it looked like he was leaning in to better hear her over the cacophony of music and conversation. He was close enough for her shoulder to brush his ribs.

At one point in the night she had leaned forward to reach the drink Dimmock offered and Sherlock placed a hand lightly on her hip to steady her. Sally noticed that one, slanting her eyes toward him. That was his cue to dial back the touching.

He took a moment to step away, excusing himself with a quick, "I'll be right back" murmured into Molly's ear. She nodded in acknowledgment, still in animated conversation with Dimmock and Donovan.

Sherlock passed through the sitting room where Anderson was in a debate with Wiggins over the music he'd been playing. "I'm not telling you how to do it, I'm just saying you could play something a little more classic."

"Wha' like… Beyonce?" Wiggins asked in his unmistakably Eastend accent.

"Something the Gen-xers recognize", Phillip attempted to clarify.

The scrawny man's sunken eyes lit up with comprehension "Ohh right", He pronounced with a wink, "Like Destiny's Child!"

Anderson looked as though the wind was taken out of him. With a breath and a shrug he answered, "I mean… yeah." Then he made a resigned walk toward the kitchen to stand in the periphery of where Molly, Sally and Dimmock were chatting.

The previous track faded and was replaced with a woman shouting "Hit me!" followed by a fast drumline punctuated with rhythmic orchestra hits. The reaction from the kitchen was immediately positive.

"I love this song! Great choice!" Sally Donovan commended to the back of the room with a raise of her arm.

"Fank 'im. 'E picked it." Billy announced from behind his laptop, gesturing to where Phillip hovered outside of, but not entirely separate from, their conversation.

Sally and Phillip's eyes met properly for the first time that evening and she smiled at him, nodding, "Nice."

"Yeah!" He colored slightly, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah I thought we could do with a classic…"

The man looked across the room to Billy in a state of disbelief. Wiggins simply smiled a crooked sly thing and gave Anderson a quick thumbs up before increasing the volume. The crescendo subtly forced the group to close in tighter, giving Phillip the perfect excuse to slide in beside Sally.

Ice broken, just like that, and without any intercession on Sherlock's part. He continued his route toward the loo but on his way found John and Lestrade hovering in front of the door with DI Hopkins, who must have just arrived. They were huddling together and whispering.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, "What if someone calls the police?"

There was a beat, and then, "John… we are the police" Hopkins explained gently against a backdrop of Lestrade's snickering.

Sherlock wasn't certain what was happening there but it sounded as though he really ought to be.

"Hullo, Hopkins. Glad you could make it!" he announced, popping round the corner and catching them all looking guilty.

"H-hey! Sherlock! Yeah, thanks for inviting me! Uhm… we were just going to step outside… for a…" she floundered, looking to her accomplices.

"Walk!" Lestrade supplied, "You know, a little fresh air…"

The three of them nodded, corroborating one another in their obvious lie.

Sherlock squinted, scanning each of their faces before landing on John's. The man did his best, but his poker face left a lot to be desired.

"John… where are you going?", Sherlock pushed with a look of pure interrogation.

There was a long standoff as Sherlock stared the doctor down. Then John cringed and then blurted out, "To smoke a joint!"

"I just like to smoke a little before parties," Hopkins rushed to explain, "I only brought the one, and I didn't want to make things weird since you're on the wagon…"

Sherlock wanted to laugh at how prudish they were being over a little cannabis. Lestrade had personally relieved him of countless baggies of various… recreational powders. Before he could say anything to that effect, he suddenly had a dark idea.

"How considerate of you, Stella. I don't mind at all. In fact, John, why don't you show them to the back garden?" He smiled a little too widely for anyone's comfort at his own suggestion, but no one had a mind to question the motive behind it.

"Yeah, good idea", John replied, "guess we'll be back in a mo…" he handed Rosie's monitor over before turning back toward the door.

Sherlock, still sporting his slightly sinister smile, waved to them as John led his group out the door. "Have fun!"

He returned from the loo to rejoin his group that had evolved from a spirited, but otherwise subdued conversation; to a highly competitive drinking game. The resulting cheers and boos were punctuated by the sound of glass sliding across a surface, and sometimes the sound of shattering.

Slotting himself back into his place beside Molly, Sherlock turned to her and muttered in her ear "What are we playing?"

He pleasantly noted her slight shiver. He could have put it together on his own, but this way had had her craning her lovely neck to bring her lips near enough to his ear to feel the tickle of her breath.

"Bar curling" she explained, "We're sliding the empty lager bottles across the table, the closest to the edge without going over, wins the round."

"Enough with the sweet nothings. Molly it's our go" Anderson teased, "I hope you're ready to lose… "

He lined himself up with the table, checking and double checking his mental trigonometry before giving the empty bottle a calculated nudge that sent it sliding across the table and stopping within three centimeters of the edge.

Beaming smugly he waxed, "Ah physics. Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world!"

Molly returned his smile with one of her own, throwing and catching her own bottle confidently in her palm. Then giving it a little kiss before lining it up for her own shot.

She took less time to calculate than Phillip had. Rather than a carefully planned nudge, Molly gave her bottle a firm slap, sending it sailing across the table. Molly's bottle collided with Phillip's, knocking it the final few centimeters over the edge. It fell into the bin situated at the end where it joined its fellows in a pathetic pile of shattered glass.

Meanwhile Molly's bottle remained on the table, situated precariously half on and half off the edge, but not budging. Their friends cheered around them, Anderson taking his own defeat with sportsmanship.

"Ah, the luck of the Irish", Molly parodied Anderson's earlier tone, "Give me a whiskey strong enough and a beer with which to chase it, and I shall wreck your shit!"

That earned her a big laugh from their friends as she went to her place under Sherlock's arm, her victory granting him license to give her a lingering pat on the back before returning his arm to it's place around her.

They continued the game for another hour or so, joined later by the pungent-scented trio that consisted of Watson, Lestrade and Hopkins. Their presence added to the cheers, jeers and chatter that continued over the music for another hour more as bottles were broken and replaced by recently emptied ones.

Eventually the supply of bottles gave out, making Molly the winner by default. It was at this point someone, no one was entirely sure who, suggested shots. It was that suggestion that had John muttering something about going to check on Rosie. Moments later his snores could be heard over the monitor.

Sometime later Rosie could be heard fussing, clearly not enough to rouse her father from the depths of cannabis and alcohol induced slumber however. Sherlock moved to get her but Molly followed close behind and stayed him with a hand on his arm.

"I'll get her", she offered brightly.

"Are you sure?" he asked, not wanting to risk dampening her evening in any way, things had been going so well.

"Of course! You go back to being host with the most!", she gave him a quick peck that made him flush despite himself and they parted at the steps leading to John's door.

Molly scampered down the steps carrying Rosie seconds later. She took the toddler with her to be soothed on the landing, away from any loud parties or snoring fathers.

Sherlock did as instructed and stayed with his remaining guests, doing his best to maintain the mood until Molly could rejoin them. He was only at this work for about twenty minutes when he heard Molly stomping resolutely back up the stairs with Rosie asleep and boneless against her godmother's shoulder. The sight always did something to Sherlock.

Any sentiment was immediately curtailed by Molly's furious expression as she made a beeline directly to John's room, depositing Rosie in her cot and quickly going to leave.

Confused, Sherlock followed her, attempting to put himself between her and the door. Her head was down refusing to look at him, but when she met the resistance of his body she glared up at him with angry tears filling her eyes.

"Molly, why-?"

"Get the hell out of my way…" she demanded as she pushed through him. He allowed her, but followed her down the steps to the landing.

"Molly, please! Don't go!" He pleaded with her taking her by the hand.

"Why? So you can continue to use me and all our friends to torment your new neighbor?" she accused, snatching her hand out of his. "Haven't you done enough?"

He gawped, floundering in the wake of being caught outright. "… What did he tell you?"

"Not much. But when he stumbled out of 221C at one in the morning to investigate a crying baby looking like he hadn't slept in weeks- the story mostly told itself." She was hugging herself, trembling with tears in her eyes, "Of course all of this was just to drive him away. I can't believe I actually thought…" she shook her head.

"No! Molly! Please stay… I-I just…" but he saw her resolve before he could construct a rationalization.

She shook her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "See you around the lab, Sherlock", she spat out before disappearing behind the door and into a waiting uber. He listened as the engine motored away, forehead pressed to the door.

He hit it with the side of his fist in frustration before turning to find he was being observed by a pair of eyes that peered through the darkness of the bottom steps. Sherlock's glared back, his top lip curling into a snarl.

"Laugh it up while you can." Sherlock announced ominously before returning to his flat where the party had immediately fizzled at Molly's abrupt departure and everyone but the Watsons were finding reasons to leave. Even Wiggins, who did not stay to break down his gear, mentioning something about being back for it later.

Laying alone in his bed he stared at the ceiling and wondered how it had all gone so wrong.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it! Kind of a Spock-unmaking disaster we have on our hands here!
> 
> Stay tuned!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is trying to cope in the aftermath of Sherlock's deceit and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who have read, kudos'd, commented and/or recced this fic. 
> 
> I've seen an uptick in people reading/commenting on my older works. I do plan to get back around to those unfinished WIPs at some point, now that the words are happening. I want to kind of get through this one before directing my focus on another work.
> 
> Many thanks are perpetually owed to MizJoely for smoothing out the wrinkles. But, of course, any and all remaining wrinkles are on me. My bad! Ain't I a stinker?

Molly had forgotten about the man on the stairs almost immediately after being welcomed into Sherlock's flat. This fact loomed large in her mind as she lay on her bed facing her ceiling. She had really gone and let herself be taken in by his calculated charms and forgotten to even notice the stranger hadn't joined them.

She hadn't even had the decency to ask his name. Cringing from where she lay on her bed recounting the evening. She rolled over onto her stomach, pulling her duvet over her head as if the night could be blocked out entirely by a few inches of goosedown.

The worst part was how she didn't want to block out how Sherlock had barely let her out of arm's reach. She wanted to think again and again about his hands constantly on her or around her; nothing too effusive, and almost all could be written off as platonic.

Almost.

She'd given him a peck in the relative privacy of the small stairwell that led to John's room. He'd turned his head slightly, making her kiss land nearer to the corner of his mouth than properly on the cheek. To her surprise, he'd lingered, bracketing her against him with a hot hand on the back of her neck.

It was too dim to be sure, but she could swear he'd blushed. Of course, that could also have been from the alcohol. A niggling part of her mind absolutely refused to have any sort of charitable opinion of what had happened, not even the lovely parts.

The way he'd watched her carry their goddaughter into the quiet of the landing seemed like appreciation- even admiration in the moment. With the benefit of hindsight, however, she had to wonder if he was merely congratulating himself for getting out of soothing Rosie.

Even that eternally negative part of her mind had to reject that notion outright. In a game of 'Would You Rather' Sherlock would choose soothing a fussy Rosie over entertaining party guests- easily ninety nine times out of one hundred. If he had this time, how differently would the night have gone?

She didn't want to think about it. It wasn't relevant anyway. The night had gone the way it did and, ultimately, she was glad the truth had come out.

***

Rosie hadn't been entirely awake, nor was she asleep when Molly carried her into the relative quiet of the landing. The little girl was in a fitful space where she could easily drift off again or be roused and inconsolable. She did not appear to be in need of a bottle or a nappy, but still struggled over the issue of settling.

"She's too warm. Try unzipping her sleeper a bit," a slightly familiar American voice called from the shadows of the bottom steps.

Startled, Molly gasped, clutching Rosie closer to her and pressing her back to the door to 221B before she parsed out where, and therefore, who the voice was coming from.

"Oh it's you… from before…" Her breathing was fast but she was regaining control. She pushed herself away from the door and looked down at Rosie. The child was flushed and sleep-hot with creases from her sheets crossing her dewy cheeks. Her medium weight cotton sleeper was clinging to the child's body slightly from sweat.

Molly followed the recommendation, lowering the zip that closed the sleeper slightly and blowing cool air on her flushed skin. Rosie sighed, smacking her little lips wetly and going still in her godmother's arms with a quiet snore after a few moments of cool air on her overheated skin.

As she did, the man stepped further upward toward the landing in front of Mrs. Hudson's door. Under the light she could make out his features better than she had given herself time to do in their first awkward encounter.

"Thank you", she told him sincerely. He only nodded in acceptance.

He was a peculiarly handsome man. He had smooth dark hair that fell over his brow and ears. He had the countenance of a serious academic despite the dark circles under his eyes and being dressed in, well… pyjamas.

"I didn't see you come into the party before…" she stated realizing she'd been staring. "…And that's because you weren't invited isn't it?"

The man nodded mutely.

He stood in the stairwell to 221C's entrance looking like it had been ages since he'd had a proper night's rest and it all clicked into place. "You live here?"

"In the flat with the, uh… murdered child's shoes," he clarified.

Molly colored brightly. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. If it's any consolation at all, he wasn't murdered in the flat…," she cringed immediately as the words left her mouth. "I mean… hell… I don't actually know what I mean," she shook her head.

The man smiled slightly at this.

"Oh god!…," Molly swore as she realized, "are we disturbing you?" It was at that moment the people inside joined together in a loud cheer, answering her question for her.

"It wasn't the noise," he assured her, responding to the distress in her eyes, "I've more or less grown accustomed to it by now. Earlier, three guests from the party were burning something in the garden, and now my flat reeks of it."

Molly winced, "Sherlock didn't tell us you were here. I'm so sorry! He can be very…," Molly searched for the correct word for Sherlock's particular brand of being difficult, "inconsiderate-"

"Oh no" he cut her off, "his actions are in full consideration of me. Of that I am certain." He scoffed with a shake of his head.

Tears pricked her eyes. "Yeah…", she nodded, "I'm sure they are…".

Of course, torturing this man into leaving had been Sherlock's entire motive from the start. And he'd made her an unknowing participant by manipulating her with the attraction she still felt toward him. Worst yet, she had taken the bait again. She sniffed, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes.

The man seemed perplexed at her emotional reaction, cocking his head to one side in the way Sherlock had a habit of while in deduction mode. "If I have offended you somehow, forgive me. Please, go and enjoy your party."

The sincerity in his apology gutted her. She shook her head, rallying herself, "God! No apology necessary in fact…," her voice faltered as she tripped over her next words, "I-I am truly so very sorry. I…," she adjusted Rosie's lolling head higher onto her shoulder and the child sighed and shifted in her sleep. "I'd better… "

He nodded, seemingly understanding of her implicit obligation to Rosie's needs. He returned to where he'd been sitting on the bottom step, cloaked in the dark of the stairwell

Within minutes after that, she made a quick and quiet exit.

***

"His name is what?" Molly asked for clarity over the phone, she wasn't sure she'd heard the first time Mrs. Hudson had said it.

"Spock," the elder woman repeated, "S-P-O… er… C-K? I'm not actually sure how it's spelled. But when you ask if it's his first or his surname he just says that people call him Spock. He's from California." That last bit came out in a whisper.

"Wouldn't his full name be on his lease?," she asked. Molly was aware Mrs. Hudson had a bit of a checkered past, and would know better than to take cash under the table and not vet a resident of her home, surely.

"Well no, it wouldn't be would it? He's one of Mycroft's people, an astrophysicist. He's measuring… I don't know gamma rays or something. Mycroft set it all up under a false name." Mrs. Hudson explained, her voice echoing strangely.

Neither option was outside the the realm of possibility and had some precedent.

"Listen dear, I hate to be rude but I'm late for a massage," Mrs. Hudson announced.

"Wait… where are you?," she inquired of the elder woman, finally registering her general apathy of the situation developing under her own roof.

"Brighton! Treating myself to a bit of a holiday while those two get through their little turf war. Just for the weekend. I'm sure whatever it is, it will work itself out. Call me if anything goes on fire, ta!" There was a click and then silence as she rung off.

Well that would explain why she wasn't disturbed by the party. If Mycroft was involved she was certainly being well compensated.

It was all a bit sketchy. Mycroft certainly wasn't as villainous as his wardrobe, or Sherlock, would lead one to believe. That wasn't to say the man wasn't an incredibly dangerous person with whom to associate. But he was also something of a mother hen where his younger brother was concerned.

Molly didn't know which Sherlock would find more repugnant: Mycroft recklessly disregarding the safety of his home to house a potentially volatile person, or using even less discreet tactics than usual to spy on him.

Neither was reason enough to draw her, their friends, nor (for Christ's sake) their goddaughter in this petty revenge plot, however.

Not to mention the strong possibility the man truly was one of Mycroft's people just here to do a job, and Sherlock was making it difficult for no good reason. Molly herself had done plenty of, let's say, 'off the books' work for Mycroft here and there. She could empathize with his position.

This Spock fellow was almost certain to not get anything remotely like an apology from Sherlock. And although she couldn't, and wouldn't, apologize on Sherlock's behalf; she felt obliged to, at least, make amends for her part in the harassment.

Molly put opened a new tab on her mobile, and with a quick search she found the items she was looking for. Ticking a check in the box beside the option for "giftwrapped" before adding her apology message in the text window beneath. She added to cart, same day delivery.

Conscience clean on that front, Molly allowed herself to breathe fully once again. This was the absolute last time she would let Sherlock make her cruel by association.

She wished she could make this choice and not feel terribly conflicted. Sherlock always had his reasons, maybe his reasons weren't very rational, but it's not as if he knows how to talk about his… less than rational reasoning. He simply did not have the tools.

She had always hoped he would find them, that the obvious draw he felt toward her would give way to… something. But as Sherlock had said numerous times, "Caring is not an advantage".  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think Molly ordered for Spock? Comment below! Wrong answers only! :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock hears a bit of gossip and attempts a shopping adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's holidays were special, or at the very least manageable. 2020 took advantage of the holidays to get in a few last parting shots in on this terrible year but we soldier on.
> 
> As usual thanks are owed to MizJoely for her eagle eyes! All mistakes are mine.

Spock was miserable. Logic told him he lacked for nothing, and was therefore wasting useful energy wallowing in _Bilak par_ \- self pity. That knowledge did not stop the misery from crawling under his skin and burrowing deep into his bones.

London seemed to agree. The entire city fell grey as the skies opened up to an outpouring of relentless rain. Fat drops rolled down the awning outside Speedy's where he stood, watching as his plans to meditate in the park pooled into rivers along the kerb and swiftly flowed down the gutter.

He turned back to 221, resolved to return to his flat and perhaps make another attempt at meditating through one of his neighbor's compositions. They had only gotten more frequent and longer in duration since the party, and its rather abrupt end.

Before, Spock had been quite certain that the loud violin playing was merely a tactic to annoy him. And it unequivocally was, at first. However the sessions of high-pitched shrieking and discordant trills had suddenly given way to somber, sweeping music; actual music, not simple noise devoid of pattern or reason.

Sherlock's music told a story Spock knew intimately: loneliness, forlorn hope, and the pain of inevitable heartbreak.

He couldn't escape it. The minor key seeped into his dreams, the legato settled over the house like a chill, vibrato making it tremble to the very foundations. Even when Sherlock wasn't playing, the music found it's way into Spock's unconscious mind.

He almost preferred the spiteful shrieking.

Covered as they were by the longer hair, Spock's sensitive Vulcan ears could still hear his upstairs neighbour stirring from the main landing. He could hear as Sherlock whipped his bow through the air with a slashing sound several times before he set the rosin to it.

Spock blinked slowly and let out a slow breath rather than a despondent sigh at the prospect of another several hours of nonstop violin. His resignation was cut off, however, by Mrs. Hudson popping out of her own flat on the main landing.

"Oh, good! You're still here, Dr. Spock! A parcel arrived for you this morning…," she exclaimed, disappearing back into her flat before turning around and waving him in behind her.

He followed her inside.

"Just Spock is fine, ma'am, thank you."

She seated him on her settee as she bustled to her kitchen to gather the item in question. What she brought him was a brown, composite paper box with an adhesive strip seal that had already been breached. He lifted his brow.

"Mycroft's people looked it over," she rushed to explain. "They give all our post a once-over. I was opposed to it at first myself, don't want some stranger putting his hands on my Frederick's, but one attempted bombing is all it takes to see the sense in it. Tea?"

Spock blinked in surprise. This conversation had taken quite a few hard lefts. Then again, conversations with the older woman usually did. He nodded his agreement that tea would be lovely.

He'd also learned not to turn down tea from her, as it usually was accompanied by rather excellent biscuits or sandwiches- depending on the time of day.

"I'm making up a tray for His Nibs, I could just as easily make one up for you. I could do for a bit of company and you look like you could use a bite, dear- no offense…"

Her offer came with a mild insult but as the grey skies poured down cold rain that formed steam on the hot pavement outside, he felt more adrift than he ever had before. Even in his time, no technological advancement could match a comforting maternal presence as a treatment for homesickness.

"You are too kind, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

He turned to examine the parcel she'd brought him. The label named Molly Hooper, the woman from the stairs, as the sender. He opened (or rather re-opened) the box to find two objects that inspired the first genuine smile of his stay there: a small air filter and a pair of noise canceling headphones.

With the objects was a note.:

"I hope these help. I'm so sorry I didn't even ask your name as I was unintentionally helping to ruin your evening, but Mrs. Hudson tells me you are called Spock. It was nice to meet you Spock, although I'm afraid likewise could not be said of me. I hope that can change in the near future.

Sincerely, Molly Hooper"

Below the missive was a set of numbers Spock recognized as a phone number. Molly had, evidently provided him with the digits necessary to contact her. She expressed hope to change what she estimated to be his unfavorable opinion.

Fascinating.

Spock had spent the majority of his life carrying the burden of proving that his very existence had not been a mistake in the first place. It had been his duty to live as a symbol of harmony between Humans and Vulcans; a perfect representation of federation ideals.

Being a hybrid, he was constantly left with the notion that his voice only half counted among either of his peoples. If someone was seeking anyone's approval, it was Spock, always. So to say someone desiring his was a new experience would be a gross, bordering on reckless, understatement.

This human not only sought to make amends with Spock, but also his company. Such a thought was gratifying when one felt adrift and alone.

"Molly told me about the little dust up over the drinks do," Mrs. Hudson announced, standing beside where he sat on her settee.

Apparently, in the time he'd taken to look over the contents of the parcel, read the note, and ruminate on the newness of the experience; his landlady had delivered a tray to his neighbor, and come back down to usher him to her kitchen table for his own plate. Cheese and leek pie with a generous portion of mushy peas and a milky tea awaited him.

"Dust up?" Spock inquired, settling into his chair and eyeing his meal with singular focus, taking his fork in hand.

"Yes, I believe he rather took advantage of my little weekend getaway to throw an obnoxiously loud, and entirely unprecedented, party upstairs." Mrs. Hudson punctuated her answer with a pointed sip of tea, "Naturally, Molly was not pleased with having been roped into yet another of his schemes."

"Another?" Spock inquired, lifting his brow. "This is a common occurrence?"

"Oh lord, yes! You don't even know the half," she answered, this time with an accompanying eye roll. "Not the party bit, mind you. But you don't want to hear about all that…"

The way she spoke sounded as if she would very much like to tell, but doing so would be a breach of something… social etiquette perhaps.

Ah, now Spock understood. This must be what they called "gossip". He'd been on the receiving end of it quite a lot in his life but never invited to participate in the ritual.

Logic stated that gossip was a dull, idle pursuit, perpetrated by those who would seek to deflect, rather than face, their own personal failures and/or disappointments.

Coincidentally, that was also an apt description for how Spock was feeling at that very moment, so rather than finishing his meal in amicable silence as he ought to have done, he swallowed the rather large bite he'd been chewing, set his fork down and lifted his own mug of tea.

"No please, go on…," his insistence was followed with a raised brow and casual sip.

***

Despite the unrivaled breadth of cuisine options available in early 21st century London- representing practically every existing culture on this planet- it still could not compete with the sheer variety available on even the lowest-frills vessel in Starfleet.

He could sample every food this world had to offer in this time. But no one could give him fresh _gespar_ when he craved it, and nothing else would do. No amount of money could buy a bowl of his grandmother's _p_ _lomeek_ broth when the cold rain felt as much inside of him as outside.

Having grown weary with the restaurants near the flat, and unwilling to continue to burden Mrs. Hudson, Spock had resolved to try cooking.

In his time, culinary arts are primarily relegated to what the humans call a "hobby"- something done out of the enjoyment of the act rather than necessity. There are even those that find the idea of non-replicated food morally questionable or even offensive.

He himself held no such moral conflicts, working on a vessel responsible for first contact meant he could not afford such personal hangups when negotiating cultural exchange with a new species. Humanoid culture across the galaxy share an almost universal sensitivity to offenses made against their cuisine.

Ordinarily Spock would say committing time to a hobby, particularly one so unnecessary in his century, would be wasteful- but he had nothing but time now didn't he?

This was the impetus that found him pushing a metal trolley through the automated doors of Sainsbury's on a Thursday afternoon.

A cold blast of air blew over him as the doors parted, the contrast of moving to the cold air of the shop from the summer heat outside was jarring. Some kind of tube based lighting overhead cast a very subtle, but distracting, violet hue. A dizzying array of signage bombarded his field of vision, the numbers and letters seemed to jumble together as he watched.

He pushed further into the building; his trolley had one wheel out of joint and pulled to the right. Rather than fight with it in futility while shoppers filed in impatiently behind him, he simply followed as it glided off toward a display of glass jars filled with something called piccalilli.

Labyrinthine aisles of seemingly endless shelves stocked with garishly packaged merchandise, transient temperatures, crowds, unfamiliar smells it was almost overwhelming. He picked up a jar from the display, pretended to look it over, while he found his bearings amidst a complete sensory overload.

"Is there a cosmological significance to condiments or are you simply meditating on the philosophy of ham and cucumber sandwiches?" A deep voice rumbled from behind him, jolting him away from his mental reverie.

He turned to the source of the all too familiar voice, his neighbor Sherlock stood behind him in an unseasonably heavy black coat, carrying a a handbasket of his own.

"I beg your pardon…?" Spock nearly fumbled as he spoke, but maintained his cool detachment.

"The piccalilli…," Sherlock gestured to the jar. "It goes on sandwiches, you've had sandwiches before, yes? It's a simple enough concept, although I don't doubt in California's ability to get it wrong."

The Lieutenant Commander ignored the obvious dig at the place of origin he'd given as his cover story, although, like any good cover it was based on a kernel of truth. His mother had been raised in Berkeley and he'd lived in San Francisco for several years while attending Starfleet Academy.

"I've never had it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes impatiently in a way that Spock found confusing, the man's general tone was aggressive but his demeanor was not. It was obvious there was nothing in this specific area of the shop he was looking for; therefore his intent on being in this space had only been to approach Spock.

They seemed to be locked in a staring match for several disquieting seconds before something gave in the man before him and he sighed, "Right. So you've absolutely no idea what you're doing in here, do you?"

"I... well..." Spock sputtered, if there was anyone that he would need to maintain high vigilance around, it was this human with a deductive prowess that could rival a tricorder.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, "Oh come on. You're in a foreign country, employed by the most irritating person at the Ministry of Defense, to do the most tedious job I could ever imagine. You could use a break."

Then he swallowed and leveled his gaze with Spock's, a more serious note in his voice, "Besides… I er… heard a rumor that you have a neighbor who is a complete and utter wanker…"

Spock released a tension in his face he hadn't felt himself holding onto until the entirely surprising turn of this conversation. "Certainly not a complete and utter wanker," he pronounced, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "One or the other, both is redundant."

The answer seemed to catch Sherlock off guard causing him to guffaw aloud, in spite of himself.

The laughter was quickly replaced with a pregnant pause of uncertainty before be added,"Anyway, I'm… you know…" Sherlock seemed to struggle with forming his next words, like they were somehow the wrong shape for his mouth. After a couple of false starts he settled on, "apologetically-minded."

Spock straightened, nodded to the man in regard, "How fortuitous as I find myself clemecy-minded." On impulse, he raised his hand to offer the man a Vulcan salute, only stopping himself when his hand was raised, palm forward. Unsure what to do, he allowed his hand to hang in the air a moment.

Sharing in Spock's uncertainty, Sherlock knit his brows in confusion before hesitantly raising his own hand in kind, briefly tapping his own palm to Spock's in a gesture he recognized as a casual human salutation known as a 'high five'- a gesture he and his sister had shared many times.

He wanted to laugh for the oddity of the moment, but settled for a slightly embarrassed smile that mirrored the one worn by his compatriot.

"So… ah… what are you shopping for?" Sherlock deflected back to practical matters.

Spock's eyes widened, the name of every single Earth food he'd ever consumed flew right out of his mind and was replaced with a repeating klaxon that warned him again and again not to say anything alien. The best answer he could deliver in that moment was simply an uncertain, "Food?"

Another long pause settled between them while Sherlock seemed to visibly file away another detail about Spock to include in his deductions.

"Well then… I suppose it's back to basics." Sherlock clapped his hands together as if banging a gavel on his declaration. "I'm not much of a chef myself; but conventional wisdom, such as it is, recommends that beginners start with eggs."

Sherlock walked ahead of Spock's trolley, coat billowing behind him. He'd made it several meters ahead before he turned back to Spock, "Are you coming?"

"Oh… um… yes…," Spock gripped the plastic handle, determined to follow Sherlock's lead.

"Leave it. It's broken anyway.," he commanded without turning back.

Spock did as he was told, abandoning the trolley out of the way of the aisles as he sprinted to catch up with Sherlock.

Spock hadn't taken much time, or any really, to understand the person behind the sophomoric pranks. He had been surprised to learn from Mrs. Hudson that his antagonist was an accomplished chemist and private detective of some renown.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been utterly fascinating to become acquainted with the pioneer of deductive reasoning. However meeting him as he had was rather like having one's shoes pissed upon and discovering it had been Surak, father of Vulcan logic, who had done the pissing.

It was bizarre how he'd come full circle in his opinion of the detective. More bizarre was how much lighter he felt now that he and the detective were no longer at odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're leaving toxic masculinity in 2020. 2021 is about the nurturing side of masculinity- bros before ridiculous gendered stigmas about emotionally supportive male friendship, yo.

**Author's Note:**

> So a little background and some of ch1 from Mycroft's POV. I've already got ch3 finished and ch4 outlined. I'm chugging along with these updates!


End file.
